


mission control internships with the according headaches

by CatsGirlsComicsAndThisOddball



Series: Equilibrium of Three Forces [7]
Category: Black Panther (2018), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alpha Erik Killmonger, Alpha M'Baku (Marvel), Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, M/M, Omega T'Challa (Marvel), Omega Verse, Pining, Rescue Missions, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-25
Updated: 2019-08-25
Packaged: 2020-09-26 17:24:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20393395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CatsGirlsComicsAndThisOddball/pseuds/CatsGirlsComicsAndThisOddball
Summary: M'Baku's and Erik's POVs of Chapters 10, 11 and 12 ofThreefold.





	mission control internships with the according headaches

**Author's Note:**

> I'm still alive ^^ Sorry for the abysmal punctuation, local idiot writer running on three hours of sleep and half a cup of cold green tea. Hope this is some kind of fun.

  


“Prepare the Talon. We leave in an hour.”

  


_Good._

  


At his side, M’Baku feels a minute amount of tension leave N’Jadaka’s shoulders.

  


“My King, please. You don’t need to-”

  


“We will_ not_ leave this child to its fate! Nor will we leave that mission unfinished. So help me Bast, I will see this done!”

  


A king’s words, unquestionable, and they subdue the advisor’s protests. Among the other seats, T’Challa’s order finds obvious approval. A _lot_ of approval, easy to observe in the way the River Tribe Heiress throws herself into T’Challa’s arms. The king doesn’t seem bothered by the inappropriate display of emotion, exchanges quiet words with the shorter Omega.

  


The makeshift council discusses the mission. T’Challa’s instructions come quick, astute, and they omit N’Jadaka’s and M’Baku’s presence. He doesn’t even need to look at him to know that his mate is all but vibrating with agitation, and it makes sharp worry twist in M’Baku’s chest.

  


“Do me a favor and wait in our quarters. I’m going to ask the king to observe this mission.”

  


“For real? Why?” N’Jadaka raises an eyebrow at him.

  


“Because I know you.”

  


“Alright. See you in a bit.”

  


M’Baku nods, relieved, and they part ways as they leave the council room. He makes his way to the King’s apartment and is greeted by the Dora Milaje guarding the door.

  


“Chief M’Baku.”

  


He recognizes the Dora guard whose uniform shows her as the officer in charge. This time he even remembers her name.

  


“Captain Aneka. I am waiting for a word with the king.”

  


“He’s not to be disturbed right now, but he will be out shortly,” she informs him.

  


“Thank you. May I wait here?”

  


“Yes. You have recently been granted formal status as a member of the royal family.”

  


“Ah.”

  


“I thought that might amuse you,” she suggests, with a deadpan expression.

  


It’s probably not the wisest course of action to show his hand like this. But the Golden Tribe’s court protocol short version has 729 pages, and for whatever reason his pilot seems to like him. Also, her flying only made him moderately nauseous, which is a feat.

  


“Is there something I should be doing about my new status?”

  


“Attend three formal dinners, at least two negotiations and a wedding ceremony with the Prince,” she gives back dryly. “But considering the blatant disregard of protocol of late, I’ll wager you’ll be fine for now.”

  


“Thank you.”

  


“You’re welcome.” She salutes and steps aside. “The king should be out any minute now.”

  


One sharp gesture, and the other two Dora Guards depart the corridor.

  


“You’re leaving?”

  


“Members of the royal family with the highest security clearance have the privilege of privacy.”

  


“Ah. Thank you.”

  


She salutes and follows her sisters in arms. M’Baku doesn’t believe for one second that all members of the extended royal family automatically are permitted to speak with the king one on one. This is a sign of trust, almost uncomfortably much of it.

  


He doesn’t have much more time to ponder it, before the door in front of him flies open and T’Challa steps out, and all but runs into him.

  


“Pardon me.”

  


“Slow down, your majesty.” It’s not an easy request, considering the impatience that strains in T’Challa’s every move.

  


“What can I do for you?”

  


“He’s gonna ask you to tell me no when I ask you to come along.”

  


M’Baku suppresses a wince, then a sigh as N’Jadaka saunters around the corner, arms crossed. He wants to ask how his mate got here and knows in the same instance that he doesn’t want to know the answer.

  


“You think I didn’t know what was up, _honey_?”

  


“I know better than to trust in your common sense by now, _Olufẹ_.”

  


“I would not take you on this mission, no matter what either of you asked,” T’Challa interrupts them. “You are an Alpha, so you would be useless in the field, and you are not trained to operate with the rest of my team.”

  


Irritation flashes across N’Jadaka’s face. M’Baku sends him a stern glance while they follow the king into the elevator. He feels for his mate- it is grating to have one’s abilities dismissed like this- but T’Challa is right, and N’Jadaka knows it, too.

  


“You’re taking the white boy.” Don’t let it be said that his mate isn’t stubborn to a fault, though.

  


“Everett doesn’t have your temper problems.”

  


“Fuck you, I don’t have temper problems.”

  


M’Baku does not roll his eyes at his mate, but it’s a close thing.

  


“You are welcome to observe the mission. If you play nice with Shuri, I am sure she will explain her monitoring to you,” the king gives back unfazed. His expression is strange, eyes unfocused at the doors, already going over the mission. Quiet and sharp, all focus, none of his usual easy gentleness left. It feels like- it _is_ a privilege to see.

  


xxx

  


“You know, can’t believe I’m really saying that.” Absolutely true, Erik really can’t. And yet, here he is, saying things he hasn’t even completely thought through: “But you’re aware that you’re not responsible for your father’s mistakes, right?”

  


M’Baku’s eyebrows shoot up, and Erik shrugs minutely at him. The king doesn’t see that, because he’s busy glaring at the door.

  


“Am I not?” T’Challa questions, a note of bitterness in his voice.

  


“You are not,” M’Baku replies, and shit, he’s entirely right about it, too. It’s a new and unsettling thought, and an ugly weight in the pit of Erik’s stomach: T’Challa didn’t chose his father, and he didn’t deserve what Erik tried to do to him. Did to him.

  


It’s unreal, is all. People aren’t good like that. Erik still remembers stabbing T’Challa, he remembers dropping him off the fucking waterfall, bright and vivid, whenever he wants to.

  


And here his cousin is, without his panther suit, unarmed safe for his skill. In a closed space with Erik and his mate, so trusting Erik doesn’t know whether to feel infuriated or endlessly concerned.

  


“Who else is, then? It falls to me to fix what he neglected, and I will do so to the best of my abilities.”

  


He barely manages to suppress a groan. All noble, fierce and earnest, this is exhausting.

  


“You ever get tired of that whole honorable bullshit?”

  


“No, I do not.” Just like that, T’Challa is right up in his face, dark eyes full of anger. “Now either tell me why you are still bothering me or keep your quiet!”

  


He’s serious about this mission. Erik has known that, seen it in him before, but this time drives it home. T’Challa turns on his heel and stalks towards the royal Talon. There’s the panther’s grace again, unrestrained yet deadly efficient, and Erik doubts he’ll ever grow tired of watching it.

  


He exchanges a glance with M’Baku and notes his mate’s grimace.

  


“Right, you hate flying. You sure you wanna come?” Erik says as he follows his cousin.

  


“I’ll manage.”

  


The entry ramp of the falcon is still extended, even though T’Challa has already vanished inside, and it’s all the invitation Erik needs.

  


The inside of the aircraft is fancy as fuck, sleek Wakandan design embellishing the force of a Vibranium powered core. He doesn’t know why he’s surprised to see T’Challa in the pilot’s seat. Wakanda’s king’s got to be fucking perfect, go figure. M’Baku snorts at him as he goes to take the nearest seat, while Erik approaches the cockpit.

  


“You know how to fly these things?”

  


“No, I have grown so tired of you that I have determined to end this.” The deadpan delivery catches him off guard.

  


“Touchy King. You always like- whoa!”

  


He studies T’Challa’s graceful posture on the pilot’s seat for a moment too long and is rewarded by falling on his ass when the Talon leaps into the air.

  


M’Baku snickers quietly. Erik flips him off and gets up to step next to his cousin.

  


“So, where do I learn to fly one of these?”

  


“At the Royal Academy of Aviation. A pilot’s license usually takes a year to acquire.” Huh. A year ain’t even all that long. Definitely worth it for the view alone, too.

  


And damn.

  


Wakanda is so fucking beautiful.

  


“M’Baku, get over here. You gotta see this.”

  


As M’Baku joins them, Erik becomes aware of an unsettling kind of peace in his chest. Despite the complicated mess that is his feelings for his estranged family, his unknown fatherland. All the things he still needs to do.

  


He’s not alone anymore, the fact hits home with the golden afternoon’s light. People that he could trust completely. People worth protecting. Erik has gone a long time without both. If gods really exist, they’re probably laughing at him now. He looks at his father’s country, his cousin and his mate by his side. He’s in the right place.

  


_And our third is somewhere down there._ The thought doesn’t fill him with anxiety like the first time they realized that they were missing something. Instead, in face of this country’s- _his_ country’s beauty, Erik feels nothing but confident. _We’ll find them._

  


xXx

  


Despite the talon’s rapid movement above the flatlands, M’Baku barely feels any nausea while he goes to join his mate. It’s a stunning moment, the sky wide and open before them. N’Jadaka’s pupils are blown wide with awe, and it’s possibly the least guarded M’Baku has ever seen him.

  


T’Challa watches him as well, expression full of unexpected gentleness, although he immediately refocuses his attention on the aircraft and steers them into a curve with casual skill.

  


“You might want to sit down for the landing.”

  


“You’re not looking like you need a paper bag.” N’Jadaka remarks as they follow T’Challa into Mount Bashenga at a polite distance.

  


“It stands to reason that the King is a decent pilot.” M’Baku gives back. “Anything else would be embarrassing.”

  


The inside of Mount Bashenga is a dreadful marvel, and the complete opposite of every conceivable Jabari aesthetic. From the flashy, all-encompassing screens, the raw vibranium glint of floors and ceilings, to the pounding, electric beat, everything has the Princess’ touch all over it. Her assigned Dora Guards eye N’Jadaka and him subtly, but there is a lot going on right now. N’Jadaka’s attention on the ordered mayhem of hasty scientists is razor sharp.

  


“Sand table,” the Princess calls, but that instruction is probably not meant for them, so M’Baku and N’Jadaka take an unoccupied place next to the round central staircase and watch the King’s selected team arrive.

  


“Those two look attached,” N’Jadaka comments, vexed, and M’Baku follows his eyes to where T’Challa and the River Tribe heiress are embracing, again. And exchanging whispered words. Again. It’s slightly impolite for sure, though none of the bystanders seem irritated in any way.

  


“According to my information, they are childhood friends,” M’Baku answers. “She would be a good match for him, politically speaking.”

  


On paper, that is, though somehow the idea seems ludicrous. The other Omega has proven again and again that she values her time and work in the War Dog service too much. T’Challa would definitely need someone who is more consistently present. Also, their characters don’t fit that well- his thoughts are cut short when the Princess starts her briefing.

  


“Alright, is everyone here? These are your communicators. Stick them behind your ear, I upgraded them to blend with every of your natural skin tones. Even yours, white boy.”

  


Communication, shields and weapons, all of her own design. Distributed with a generous amount of both competence and bickering. Begrudgingly, M’Baku admits that it is impressive, especially considering her young age.

  


When M’Baku learned first that the Golden Tribe had assigned responsibility over the nation’s design group to a child, he had been honestly and deeply concerned for the security of it. Watching her in the midst of her element, for the first time the decision begins to make some sort of sense. Now, while she takes away her brother to the display of the panther suits and talks to him, low and serious, it’s easy to see that she has her brother’s and her people’s complete trust.

  


On an unspoken command, the team follows the royal siblings out of the lab and to the landing platform, and they follow. The team readies and boards the talon, and N’Jadaka nudges him, so M’Baku approaches T’Challa, his mate perfectly in step by his side.

  


“Your Majesty.”

  


“Chief M’Baku?”

  


There is a strange expression on the king’s face when he meets M’Baku’s eyes and the formality seems grating in context of all events of this day.

  


“Take care, T’Challa,” M’Baku says, and notes with little surprise how much he really means his next words. “Wakanda needs its king to return.”

  


“Watch your back,” N’Jadaka adds, which is more startling, but appropriate nonetheless.

  


“I’m not going alone. And besides, I do have a very competent mission control,” The king replies and looks at his younger sister, who is playing with her kimoyo beads. A mix of exasperation and resignation crosses his features, a quiet, lightening quick exchange between siblings.

  


The Princess says: “I made some adjustments to the Talon’s propulsion units. I hope to get some feedback when I meet the experts on Saturday.”

  


“You are the devil,” T’Challa replies, pure fondness in his tone betraying his words.

  


“Have a safe flight,” she gives back with a smirk that M’Baku recognizes from many insider jokes with his own siblings.

  


“What was that about?” N’Jadaka asks, while they all watch T’Challa board the talon and M’Baku reminds himself not to stare at his own king’s ass too obviously.

  


“I’m sure you’d like to know.” The Princess turns to them, still the same smirk but also a sharper glint. “Now, what are we going to do with you?”

  


xXx

  


“If you would be so kind to let us observe this mission, my mate and I would be very grateful for the insight.” M’Baku says with a formal, only mostly forced smile.

  


Shuri’s eyebrows lift. “If you stop patronizing me with court protocol I might consider it, Great Gorilla.”

  


“I am trying to be polite, girl.”

  


“Yep, that sounds more like you.”

  


Her Dora Guards watch them from a polite but wary distance while she considers both of them, an unusually serious look in her eyes.

  


“Why do you want that insight?”

  


Erik finds his mate looking at him, so he figures it’s his turn to answer: “This is the first time I’m seeing your brother doing anything worthwhile. I want to watch how he handles this.”

  


She tilts her head, ever so slightly, tone cool. “You think you’re qualified to judge T’Challa on any basis?”

  


“You know well enough that I know my stuff about black ops, Princess.”

  


“Yes, I do.”

  


Erik’s hackles rise with the way she looks at him then, sharp and analytical, without a hint of the former amusement.

  


“I didn’t know who you were the first time you came here. But I do now, N’Jadaka.” She says, brown eyes unguarded like her brother's, but with a cold determination.

  


“Erik.” He corrects through gritted teeth.

  


"Moscow, Nairobi, Jaipur, Shanghai."

  


He can’t help the miniscule flinch, the twitch for a weapon, any weapon by his side, even though there is none. He feels M’Baku’s immediate reaction, and he barely manages to restrain himself from moving.

  


_How the fuck?_

  


This information wasn’t written down anywhere, and he personally killed everyone who had access to it. Or so he thought.

  


“I’m going to make you and your mate a promise now, cousin. If either of you attempt to hurt my brother or my family ever again, you will not see me coming.”

  


Erik should laugh. She’s a slip of a girl who couldn’t take him in a fight, she’s a fucking child. His throat is constricted around nothing.

  


“Do we understand each other?”

  


“Perfectly, your Highness.” M’Baku replies, even and cool.

  


“Good.”

  


Just like that, her smile is back, and she reaches in her pocket to take out a kimoyo bead to offer to Erik.

  


“Usually an internship in the Black Panther’s division of the design group is only offered after three years of basic training with perfect test scores at every turn, and a psych evaluation. Consider yourself lucky.”

  


“What the fuck is this.”

  


“Access.” She lifts an eyebrow. “Limited and monitored of course, but that is standard protocol.”

  


“Why?”

  


“No intern has qualified this season. You’re smart, and a fast learner.” She smirks. “Keep your friends close, right _Erik_?”

  


He wants to say no on principle, but on the other hand, this is probably the best opportunity he’s been given ever since he drank the heart shaped herb. And she knows it, too.

  


With a quick motion, she throws the bead into a high arch, and he catches it instinctively.

  


“This will not be easy. You’re going to have to catch up on a lot.” She offers, before she turns and starts to walk back to the mountain’s entrance.

  


“Hanuman.” M’Baku mumbles.

  


“Smug little gremlin.”

  


“I heard that.”

  


Erik has planned for a lot of things in the years he prepared for coming to Wakanda. Somehow, being seriously threatened by impossibly smart teenagers was not among them. It adds another level of surrealism to the last twenty four hours. The words from his father’s diaries still fill the back of his mind. And then there’s the image of T’Challa on the training field, offering his hand to help him up, which Erik elects to ignore entirely.

  


The kimoyo bead activates in his hand, and magnetically tugs itself into place on his wrist.

  


“Did that count as a diplomatic incident?”

  


“No bloodshed. So no.”

  


“You should give me a full list of criteria some time.”

  


“I think she might actually be worse than Asira.”

  


“Heard that, too. Move it, cousin. You have four hours to catch up on operating systems before the team arrives on site.”

  


Alright then.

  


It’s easier and harder than expected. The current standard Wakandan operating system has been in use for over 300 years now. Large parts of it are completely intuitive, for a native Xhosa speaker at least. But just about nothing of the practical knowledge Erik has of outsider IT systems is applicable. Shuri assigns him a lab technician named Quiqa. They are tall, with a spotless outfit straight out of Star Trek, entirely nondescript scent, and an intricate hairstyle of braids arranged in triangle shapes across their head.

  


If they have any reservations concerning Erik, he doesn’t notice them, and that’s not for lack of attention on his part. They explain the rudimentary structure of Wakanda’s surveillance satellites, and the Border Tribe monitored measures to prevent their detection, as well as the structure of the local War Dog chapter on site and the established contacts. When the team arrives and does their first recon trip, the Talon’s interface gives them a perfect view of what’s happening.

  


As soon as Nakia gets the address from the locals, Shuri gestures vaguely in Quiqa’s direction. In turn, they are already pulling up an interface that on second glance resembles an emulator- searching the local databases for building plans, Erik realizes.

  


He reaches out to a smaller screen by the side and enhances the available satellite pictures of the address. What he sees gives him pause, and then makes him scowl. It’s a goddamn nightmare, is all, even for someone with enhanced speed and strength. A reconstruction from the last 48 hours of satellite pictures shows a thought-out and pretty much airtight guard rotation, at least from above.

  


“This is unusual.” Quiqa mumbles.

  


A glance at their screen shows a mass of decrypted files, but none of them are blueprints fitting the target.

  


On cue, the next complications are reported from the Talon itself: _“We read unusual Energy signatures from within the building, my King. I am sending the scans to the Princess right now.”_

  


“Received,” the Princess confirms with a frown._ “_But there is- Bast damn it.”

  


_“What is it?”_ Cool and level headed so far, T’Challa.

  


“There is an unusual amount of lead pipes in these walls. I can’t get a clear enough scan from the Talon’s sensors.”

  


Shuri performs a series of complicated gestures, too quick for Erik to follow while he also observes the Talon’s readings and filtered images she is manipulating.

  


Lead in the walls, no building plans, this is a whole mess.

  


_“We cannot move in much lower than this without compromising the cloaking function,”_ W’Kabi says.

  


_“You don’t need to. I’m going in,”_ T’Challa says, because of course he does, and before he can think about it, Erik leans forward and logs himself into the voice channel, ignoring Quiqa’s hiss of disapproval.

  


“Okay, this is on right- you can hear me, yeah?”

  


Shuri turns and gives him a look, brows arched high. But she lets him proceed, which is as much permission as Erik needs right now.

  


_“Hello, cousin.”_

  


“So, this complex is a tactical nightmare. There’s more guards in there, guaranteed. And your royal hackers can’t find blueprints of the place. This entire thing stinks to high heaven.”

  


_“He is right, my King,”_ the General chimes in, pissed as usual, but correct at least. _“We must approach with all possible caution.”_

  


_“But we cannot delay. We do not have the luxury of time in this. Shuri, tell me when I am close enough for the scans.” _

  


Incredulous, Erik watches as the small, orange glowing figure of his cousin moves across the scanned terrain. He looks at Shuri and finds her smirking, which is pretty ballsy considering one wrong move on T’Challa’s part right now is gonna fuck up this entire operation. Only of course, T’Challa doesn’t fuck up, and the scan goes off without a hitch.

  


Chitauri weapons. Well fuck. Add that to the growing list of ridiculously unlikely shit. T’Challa and Nakia return aboard the Talon and the team gets ready to rest, while Quiqa instructs him further in the intricacies of Wakanda’s various ways to spy on the rest of the world’s IT networks.

  


Most of the technology has been developed by or under supervision of the Border Tribe. Over the last decade, the Guild of IT Dissimulation and Reconnaissance has been the fastest growing employer in Wakanda. With the Design Group’s access codes, Erik gets an in-depth overview of the entire operation. It’s fucking insane. The scope. All of it at his fingertips.

  


“Please wait until the mission is over before you try to hack any secret service,” the Princess comments.

  


“Not much trying involved. Pretty sure this would be a cakewalk.”

  


“That’s because we have remote bugged just about every government server on this planet. You’re getting that gleam in your eyes again.”

  


“Gleam?”

  


“Yes, the one that screams World Domination.”

  


“Is- does your brother know the scope of this?”

  


Shuri scoffs. “Does he know the scope? He and W’Kabi wrote most of the programs we use.”

  


“Use to watch and do nothing.” Erik says, excitement turning bitter.

  


“Not entirely nothing. But the Border Tribe’s directive above all else is to protect Wakanda.”

  


“So just fuck everyone else, yeah, I know that song.”

  


“It’s not as simple.” The Princess sends him an annoyed look. “We’re not in charge of the whole world. And as a country, we don’t want to be.”

  


“Fuck you, got mine. Yeah, I know.”

  


“The people in the rest of the world have a right and a responsibility to shape their own society.”

  


“In a society that’s been built on centuries of colonialism and racism a lot of people never get to exercise that right from any point of leverage.” Erik replies through gritted teeth. He’s been past this, had this conversation a hundred times since he was old enough to understand what Wakanda was.

  


_And we still hide, Baba? Why?_

  


“Wakandan society hasn’t always been perfect either, you know.” Shuri says. “If our nation learned, so can they.”

  


“You’re saying this sitting literally atop of a mountain of vibranium.” Erik gives back. “Have you ever wondered how your opinion would differ if you’d been raised outside of this country?”

  


“Not a lot, no.” She doesn’t look away from the three screens before her, blueish light illuminating her profile. “Have you ever wondered if yours would be different if you’d been raised here?”

  


“Yeah. I’d be a spoiled asshole Prince with no inclination to ever look outside.” He should probably shut up right about now, but fuck, god, Bast, his cousin’s face is still impassive. While her eyes flicker across the screens, her hand movements across the desk are calm routine. “All my childhood friends would’ve grown up to help me run that country. No one I ever gave a shit about would’ve ever worried about making rent, or getting thrown in jail for a parking ticket, or their kids getting shot on the way home from school. I could’ve lived my whole life not giving a single fuck about the rest of the world.”

  


A hand, warm and heavy, settles on his shoulder, and Erik looks up to find M’Baku standing by his side. His mate’s expression is one of contained unease, but his touch sends a warm reassurance through him.

  


Shuri finally turns her head. “So that is the way you justify all you’ve done?”

  


“I’m gonna do whatever it fucking takes, Princess,” Erik replies, calm with M’Baku’s solid presence next to him. “Your brother won back the throne, and I respect that. But I’m not gonna let up until Wakanda changes.” He meets her eyes. “Your foreign policy boils down to global denial of assistance. Your brother knows it, and you know it, too.”

  


She holds his stare for a long moment, before she breaks away from it, to glance down at her hands before she refocuses her attention back on her work.

  


Erik takes a deep breath, and sends M’Baku a questioning glance. M’Baku gives him a sort-of smile, troubled in the tension around his shoulders, but also true. There’s a lot to work out, still.

  


Xx

  


The mission progresses, and N’Jadaka’s world as well as the Princess’ narrows down to the lab and the closest adjacent bathroom. M’Baku watches her banter with the king, and N’Jadaka observe his cousins out of the corners of his eyes. His mate is determined to soak up as much as possible of the knowledge that is offered to him freely here. The attendant the Princess gave him is not going easy on N’Jadaka, but hos mate has brains to match his stubbornness. They never have to explain a thing twice.

  


On the morning after the first night, the Queen mother arrives with two extra Dora guards and a small caravan of staff that start setting up what amounts to the flatlander version of camping beds. Light to carry, sleek yet ornate, complete with pillows, blankets, kimoyo charging stations and low level force fields for noise control.

  


“We’ve been through this, mother!”

  


“Yes, Shuri, and our agreement still stands.”

  


The Princess glares, and in that moment looks so much like the teenager she is, that for a short second, M’Baku’s first instinct is to give her the same lecture he regularly gives to the kids back home when they stay up all night playing outsider video games.

  


“I’m not handing the mission control over to anyone else.”

  


“Then you should eat your breakfast, my daughter.”

  


The Queen Mother has it well in hand, it seems. N’Jadaka huffs something like a laugh, and in turn receives the older Omega’s attention.

  


“Don’t think you don’t need to take your meals just because I have no authority over your bedtime, Prince N’Jadaka.”

  


It’s on the absolute verge between sternness and humor, enough so to perplex his mate long enough to not protest the tray of food a server with austere expression places in front of him.

  


M’Baku clears his throat. “Thank you very much for your kind consideration, Queen Mother.”

  


“You’re very welcome, Lord M’Baku. A selection of vegetarian dishes has been prepared for you.”

  


“This is not standard protocol, is it?”

  


“Nothing that involves my children ever follows standard protocol,” she gives back with a sigh, then a smile as she looks at both N’Jadaka and M’Baku. “You should eat and keep your strength up.”

  


“Thanks.” N’Jadaka says, unsettlement barely concealed under a cocky smile.

  


“In case you want to rest later, there a cots in the adjacent room as well. My daughter insists on sleeping next to the terminals, but maybe the two of you are slightly more reasonable.”

  


“I will take you up on that offer.” M’Baku replies immediately. “And so will my mate, as soon as an opportune window opens.”

  


“Don’t patronize me, honey.”

  


“I’m growing to dislike that nickname.”

  


“That’s the fucking point.”

  


“You sound tired, beloved.”

  


“I see you two are settling into your mateship,” the Queen Mother comments, one eyebrow raised.

  


“Quite well, thanks for noticing.” N’Jadaka gives her a glinting smile.

  


“Eat your breakfast, young man. I can monitor your work station for the time being.”

  


“You have worked with the design group?” M’Baku asks.

  


“Not actively for a while now. But yes, I worked here before I took up the duties of the Royal Consort. It’s how I met my mate.”

  


Cutlery clanks loudly against earthenware, and N’Jadaka almost spills his steaming mug of coffee over the workstation.

  


“Forgive me,” Ramonda says, before the awful silence has a chance to establish itself. “I did not mean to remind you…”

  


“Of how your husband killed my father?”

  


“Of how my mate killed his brother, my brother-in-law whom I loved, yes.”

  


“He ever mention him after that night?”

  


“No.” She sighs, and sits down on the bench next to N’Jadaka. His shoulders are tense, but there is no immediate aggression in him, just raging pain, more pain than M’Baku ever thought he could bear to see on his mate’s face. He’s helpless to ease it for him.

  


“When Shuri was four years old,” Ramonda starts quietly. “She went missing from the palace. It was quite impossible. After Klaue’s attack, all safety protocols had been revised and tightened considerably. Klaue had even gotten into the outer reaches of Birnin Zana, you see, and back then no one was sure how he had done it, only that he must have had help. It was a very tense time.”

  


N’Jadaka has stilled completely, no discernible movement about him.

  


“Shuri always was a quiet child, but Bast, was she ever blessed. She could read fluently by the time she was three, and a year later, she started asking her brother questions about anything and everything. And her brother, who doted on her every smile and question, explained to her his engineering homework.”

  


N’Jadaka’s eyebrows shoot up, and M’Baku feels his own lips twitch into a smile.

  


“And so it came that one day I left Shuri to play by herself in her well-guarded room, and when I returned ten minutes later to collect her, she was gone.” There is a wistful smile on the Queen’s face now, but M’Baku can scarcely imagine the fear for her child then.

  


“We sent out a nation-wide alert to search for her, and T’Challa was ordered to stay safe, because he was the heir, and we needed to know first how this had happened.”

  


“But T’Challa didn’t.” The Princess chimes in, her own cup of something steaming in hand while she joins them, one of the technicians manning her station. “He guessed where I was, and against father’s orders snuck out with his friends to retrieve me.”

  


“Where were you at?” N’Jadaka asks.

  


“Here.” She gestures around. “I took a hoverbike from the vehicle bay. It was almost too big to climb on. I rode to Mount Bashenga, and I climbed down into the mine.”

  


“Mind you, that was before the new lifts and the safety force fields at the very bottom were installed.” Ramonda comments.

  


“And your brother found you.” M’Baku says.

  


“Yes. No one else suspected I would be here. On the off chance that something else really had happened, in order to not slow down the search effort, he didn’t tell Mother and Father. Instead he disobeyed every security protocol, climbed down himself, and carried me back up.”

  


“Risking his own security in the process.” M’Baku follows.

  


“Yes. There is nothing my son wouldn’t do to keep those he loves safe.” Ramonda says. “I hope you will remember that.”

  


“And now eat quicker, cousin.” The Princess says. “There is a lot we need to go over before the real action starts.”

  


And Hanuman, does the action start. Over the next three days, M’Baku watches first from the seat in the back, then standing in a reasonable distance, and finally sitting right beside his mate, leaving N’Jadaka just enough room to work undisturbed. The mission goes awry, the foreign Omega gets captured, and a building nearly explodes with the King still in it, which is just about the opposite of acceptable. Until, that is, the very next day the very same king expands the scale of comparison considerably when he disables his _armor_ for the sake of a half-foreign child.

  


If N’Jadaka had any remaining reservations or doubts over his cousin, M’Baku is certain they have ceased to exist by the time T’Challa closes communications with them on the request of that monstrous madman. For almost one entire, unbearable minute they sit powerless, a continent and an ocean away from where T’Challa should not be without backup right now. And M’Baku actually prays. It’s the second time he has prayed for T’Challa’s life, privately in the back of his mind. But Hanuman is meant to listen to him, and that might count for something. It has to.

  


It does. The communications come back online, the armor is enabled again, though the biofeedback is still turned off. Carefully, M’Baku watches the three-dimensionally rendered sand-projection of T’Challa move. Maybe it’s a trick of his unreasonably worried mind, or maybe the suit’s transmission isn’t quite accurate…

  


“That look like a hitch in his walk to you?” N’Jadaka mumbles, private and with narrowed eyes. T’Challa insisted he was fine.

  


“Let’s ask him when he gets here.”

  


And as it turns out, it is a good thing they do. Occupied with the rest of the returned team, no one seems to notice the king’s tight shoulders when he excuses himself without explanation. N’Jadaka falls in step beside him quietly and without question. M’Baku doesn’t even object when his mate pushes the boundaries of his admissive kimoyo bead quite a bit to locate the room where standard monitoring protocols have been turned off.

  


“That’s the Black Panther’s definition of fine then?”

  


Startled, T’Challa looks up at them, wide-eyed and unreasonably handsome. Even with the mission’s soot still on his forehead, and a _fist-sized burn wound in his side_.

**Author's Note:**

> EeeeeeeeeEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRrrrghKKKKKKKGGGgg. 
> 
> If you read this in a lemongrab voice, you are correctly estimating my current state of mind.
> 
> The story Ramonda and Shuri tell refers to the chronologically first fic in this verse, [a day in 2006](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14303709). Go check it out if you like.


End file.
